Alone Didn't Protect Me
by DeducingSherlockian
Summary: (post reichenbach) After nearly two years of dismantling Moriarty's network, Sherlock Holmes is called back to London by Mycroft. A serial killer has been terrorizing the city, who's methods are oddly familiar to that of the Consulting Criminal. Could it be a copycat killer? Or perhaps it's someone Sherlock knows all to well... (note: this fic is quite dark)
1. Chapter 1

_Betrayal comes in many forms,_  
_But relies on underlying intimacy_  
_To insure a lethal wound._  
_It is an emotional ambush,_  
_Carefully designed,_  
_Flawlessly executed,_  
_Producing an evil sound _  
_In the orchestra of life._

_- Frank P Whyte_

* * *

_Pain. _That was the first coherent thought Sherlock Holmes had as he came to. White hot pain, radiating throughout his body, pinning him down so that his bruised face pressed against the wooden floor. He squeezed open his swollen eyes, only to be met by darkness. An unfamiliar emotion stirred in the pit of his stomach, working it's way up until he thought he might vomit. Fear.

_Control. It's just transport._

He visualized the nociceptors in his skin activating, sending a message via the nerve fibres, to his spinal cord and eventually onto his brain where the pain registered.

_There. No need to be irrational about it, pain is just a malfunction, a technical error._

He couldn't recall how he'd ended up in this mess. When he tried to remember, his fragmented mind spun and screamed in protest, waves of nausea made him gag and dig his nails into the floor.

_Concentrate. Mind over matter. _

There was something there, a distant memory. A conversation? Yes, that was it, he'd spoken on the phone to Mycroft.

_"Time to come home little brother."_

_"You know full well I'm not scheduled to come back for another three months."_

_"Well I'm afraid you're going to have to cut this little holiday of yours a bit short."_

_"I'd hardly call dismantling a mass criminal network a holiday."_

_"You're needed. A serial killer has been on the loose for the past few months, I want it nipped in the bud before the press get a whiff of it."_

_"Are you telling me that the whole of Scotland Yard can't catch one rogue psychopath?" _

_"We're not dealing with an ordinary psychopath, Sherlock. Their methods are similar, identical even, to that of our dear consulting criminal." _

_"A copycat killer then."_

_"You know Moriarty's body was never found on that rooftop." _

_"I know."_

_"Well then?"_

_"I'll get a flight back to London tonight."_

Sherlock hissed as his memory faltered, broken scenes played before his eyes. His feet walking up the stairs of 221B, fists, blood, and then everything went black. Time dragged on as he laid sprawled out on the hard floor. Even if he had the energy to move, which he didn't, he was acutely aware of the handcuff binding his left wrist to something. Hours passed this way, he began to accept he was going to die here. The thought of dying didn't particularly fill him with dread, but the idea of never seeing John again... well it was unbearable to say the least. Besides if there was a Moriarty impersonator on the lose, the chances were they'd go after John. Sherlock couldn't die while John's life was in danger. It was then that he heard a faint creak from below. Someone was coming up the stairs. Sherlock clenched his fists as footsteps approached the door. His heart thumped in the darkness as the door swung open. A dim light flickered on from above, but nearly blinded Sherlock who hastily shielded his eyes with his free arm. He could sense his captor standing over his bloodied body, hear his foot tapping impatiently. Gradually, with shaking arms, Sherlock lifted his face off the floor. He turned his head towards his captor's feet, and felt his stomach lurch as he immediately recognized the grey leather Gucci shoes.

"Moriarty." He growled, but his throat was so dry it came out as a whisper.

"No. Good guess though."

_God no..._

Sherlock had a fair experience of pain. He'd been tortured, bullied, and nearly OD'd on more than one occasion. He'd faked his own death, and left behind the only people who ever cared about him. But nothing, _nothing_ cut deeper than the sound of that voice resonating within him.

Numb from the shock, he managed to sit himself up, lift his heavy head and meet the cold stare of John Hamish Watson.

"John..." Sherlock croaked, unable to form his words as the shell of his best friend stood before him. It was definitely his John, but his hair was styled and he wore a well tailored suit. Identical to Moriarty's Reiss suit in fact. His eyes weren't John's eyes either. The dilated pupils were like two black holes that threatened to suck you in and crush you into oblivion.

"Oh so you haven't forgotten who I am then." John sneered.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" Said Sherlock, bleeding out desperately, though his wounds had dried long ago.

John tilted his head in an almost reptilian manner, dragging his eyes over Sherlock.

"Well let's see." John huffed comically. "You, my supposedly best friend, fake your own death. Nearly two years, you let me grieve-"

"You don't understand." Sherlock pleaded.

"Shut up." He hissed. "Nearly two years, Sherlock. And then one day, Phillip Anderson shows up on my doorstep. He has this map you see, and on it he's tracked certain cases. New Delhi, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Brussels, sound familiar? He says you're alive, Sherlock. Naturally, at first I think he's gone stark raving mad, but I look into it all the same. You couldn't resist showing off, could you? That's when it all sunk in. All this time I thought you were dead, when actually you were gallivanting round Europe chasing after what remained of Moriarty. I wanted to make you suffer, like you did to me. Clearly John Watson wasn't a good enough reason for you to come back. So I mimicked the one person you actually give a damn about. And now here you are."

Sherlock blinked frantically, his mouth gaping as he tried to process what John had said.

"You're the Moriarty impersonator." He said meekly, it sounded more like question than an accusation.

"Once again, you astound me with your powers of deduction." Said John, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

_How could John believe any of this?_

But as Sherlock searched John's face, saw the tired lines and shadows that framed his eyes, he realized that grief had severely warped his friend's mind.

"You've killed people. Innocent people." Sherlock rasped, his eyes stinging as he came to terms with this nightmare reality.

"A necessity." Said John with a careless shrug.

Something about that nonchalant tone made Sherlock snap, he couldn't bare to hear these words coming from John, _his John._

"Stop it, John. This isn't you."

"Two years. Sherlock." Murmured John, staring into the distance. "You did this to me."

"I was trying to protect you!"

For a split second, Sherlock's words seemed to pierce John's mask. The taunting, lizard-like grin faded, the signs of grief became more prominent, and something flickered in those tortured eyes. Hope. John _wanted_ to believe him.

"I think it's a bit late for that now, don't you?" Said John, his facade snapping back into place.

"No, I don't. Let me help you John."

John threw him a withering glance and laughed. It was a bitter, almost mechanical laugh that set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"I don't _need_ your _help_." Spat John.

"I'll die before I give up on you."

Sherlock said the words without thinking, but it was true, living whilst John was unhappy was never an option.

"That can be arranged." Said John smoothly, his fingers lightly brushing against something in his left pocket. Despite the poor lighting, Sherlock could make out the distinct outline of John's Sig Sauer P226R.

"Are you going to shoot me, John?" Sherlock tried to keep his voice level. Surely John would never kill him. But this stranger wasn't John.

John paused and looked on thoughtfully, he licked his lips and said,

"No. Not yet, that would be far too easy. You forget the whole point of this little game of ours is for you to experience what I felt. No one offered me the sweet release of death when you jumped, so I shan't give you that privilege either."

Not waiting for a reply, John turned on his heel, switched off the light and locked the door behind him, leaving Sherlock once again alone in the dark. As he sat there, his gaze never pulling away from where John had stood, one thought alone choked up his mind. Two men fell the night Sherlock jumped, but only one died. And that man wasn't Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

_This is it. This is how I'm going to die._

Icy water roared in Sherlock's ears as he struggled against it. It forced it's way into his nose, down the back of his throat, burning everything in it's path. He felt the fingers gripped around his neck clench even tighter, forcing him lower into the water. The corners of his vision began to turn black, the roaring water dulled as he stopped fighting it.

_He really is going to kill me this time._

Just as he began to give in, the hand holding him grabbed at his matted hair, and yanked him out the water. Sherlock gasped, then cried out as the air stung his aching lungs. The hand knotted in his hair held him there as he shook and spluttered. Eventually, his exhausted knees gave way and buckled under him. As he fell, the man holding his head slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him upright.

"Do you feel that burn, Sherlock?" John murmured from behind, his lips brushing against Sherlock's ear. He pulled his arm tighter around Sherlock, pressing the frail man's body against his own.

Sherlock gave a feeble nod.

"That's what it was like, seeing your blood on the pavement," He paused and carefully tilted Sherlock's head back, so that his throat was exposed. His fingers gently curved around Sherlock's windpipe. "Like someone was..." He gave a quick squeeze, not too tight, but enough that Sherlock had to bite back a whimper, "_forcing_ the life out of my lungs."

"You don't think I felt that too? Seeing you like that... knowing the hurt I was going to cause. It was unbearable." Sherlock rasped, his tired head lolling back onto John's shoulder. John stiffened at the curls that brushed his cheek, but didn't push him away.

"Oh right, 'unbearable'. Clearly it was bearable enough to abandon me. That was always my problem, I used to think there was a man behind the machine. I used to be so emotional." He hesitated and let out an amused hum, "Thankfully, sentiment is a rather foreign concept to me these days."

Sherlock lifted his head, and opened his mouth to protest, at which point John let go of him and let him collapse onto the floor.

"Look at you!" John thundered, his face reddening with rage, spittle flying from his mouth. "Look at you trying to defend me, trying to _save_ me!"

"John..."

"You don't think I've noticed? Hm?" Said John, lowering his voice as he clenched his fists. "You've been here for two weeks, and you haven't tried to escape once."

Sherlock kept quiet, even though John was right. Several opportunities had presented themselves but...

"You don't want to leave, do you?" John hissed, "The other day I told one of my guards to finish his shift early. You could have easily walked out, but you didn't."

John nudged the heap on the floor with his foot, reluctantly Sherlock rolled over onto his back with a groan. John crouched down over him, for a minute his face seemed to soften at the sight of the broken detective. He reached out and swept the curls from Sherlock's forehead, he traced Sherlock's hairline and gently cupped his face. Despite everything, Sherlock couldn't help but lean into the touch. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend none of this had happened. That the furniture in 221B hadn't been replaced by John's gun collection and restraints for Sherlock. That the hand that cupped his face, had nothing but love and happiness running through it's veins.

But then John's eyes darkened once more. The hand dropped, and Sherlock had to choke back a pitiful cry.

"You need to accept this is what I am now, Sherlock."

Sherlock's stomach turned at that emotionless tone. There was no light in John's eyes. In fact, if it wasn't for the gentle rise and fall of John's chest, Sherlock could have easily mistaken him for a corpse in the morgue.

John shook his head at the stubborn detective, sat back against the wall and lit up a cigarette.

"I feel...nothing. I feel absolutely nothing, and it's a fucking relief after all these years."

John took a drag from his cigarette, and looked at Sherlock thoughtfully as the smoke billowed out in front of him. Sherlock kept his steady gaze locked onto John, he didn't speak, but John could sense he wasn't about to back down. All of a sudden, something wicked flashed in John's lifeless eyes. His lips curled up into that unnerving reptilian grin, as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers.

"Sometimes I remember how much I hate you though. When you give me that pathetic little look, I feel two years worth of anger rising up inside me." He paused and stopped twirling the cigarette. "When I see you suffer..."

Before Sherlock could react, John had pinned him down. He pressed his cigarette against Sherlock's hand, and ground it into his skin. Sherlock opened his mouth to scream, but his voice was too weak.

"_I...feel...nothing...for...you._" John hissed, as fought against Sherlock writhing under him.

John's words ignited something inside Sherlock, and gave him the energy to flip John over onto his back. Sherlock wrapped his legs around him, straddling him and forcing him to be still. John was the epitome of anger, his face red and covered in sweat. He lay there panting, glaring up at Sherlock. Sherlock then lowered his face barely an inch away from John's.

"You're a liar, John." Sherlock whispered. "You say you feel nothing for me, but if that were true, you wouldn't be torturing me."

John gave him a withering look and laughed, "Why would I hurt someone I give a shit about?"

"How many times have we been on a murder case, only to find out the culprit was a vengeful ex-lover?"

"Are you suggest that I'm your lover, Sherlock?" John sneered, sarcasm dripping from his lips.

"No, the status of our relationship is irrelevant. The fact remains that we only hurt the ones we love. If this was just business, you'd have simply put a bullet in my brain the moment I walked through the door."

John turned his head to the side, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"John, Look at me."

"No."

"Plea-"

"_No!_" John screamed, and slammed his body against Sherlock, forcing the weaker man off him. He got up, and kicked Sherlock into a musty corner of what used to be Sherlock's bedroom. He went to walk out of the room, but hesitated by the doorway.

"I will break you." John murmured, his back facing Sherlock. "I will break you, and burn you, and _crush_ you, until there's nothing left."

Sherlock kept quiet as John slammed the door behind him. As always, it was only when John was gone did Sherlock let the first tear fall.


End file.
